


Whistle a New Love Song

by aurora_australis



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, MFMM Break Down the Door Challenge, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24271483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis
Summary: A collection of unrelated stories all under the umbrella of the Break Down the Door Challenge prompt, "a member of the MFMM family opens the door to find the last person on earth they’d expect to see."
Relationships: Jack Robinson & Rosie Sanderson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 86
Kudos: 135
Collections: Break Down the Door Challenge





	1. Handlebars

**Author's Note:**

> A series of unrelated stories all under the umbrella of the Break Down the Door prompt "a member of the MFMM family opens the door to find the last person on earth they’d expect to see," each paired with a second prompt as well. Call it an exercise in multitasking for these challenging times, or, more likely, an exercise in not being able to focus on any one thing during these challenging times.
> 
> Some of these have been posted on Tumblr already, some have not.
> 
> Title of the piece comes from "Open a New Window" from _Mame_ , because apparently I can't think of opening doors without singing that song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  **Second prompt: exes meeting again after not speaking for years au.**   
> 

There is a space, on the handlebar of Jack’s new bike, that is just wide enough, and just flat enough, to seat a person while it is in motion. 

That is her spot.

Together they ride through the uncharted wilds of North Richmond, the jungles of Fitzroy, the shorelines of St. Kilda. And when he is with her, Jack feels like a true adventurer, a pirate of legend, an explorer of old. 

(He isn’t sure who is the captain and who is the first mate, but he suspects they are trading roles with every voyage. He is surprisingly comfortable with this.)

She does a good job of holding on without impeding his view, but sometimes, on the really tight corners, he has to lean forward, his face precariously close to her breasts, so he can see where they’re going. 

On those days he makes sure to thank Great Uncle Ted in his prayers. 

Well, Uncle Ted and the ice cream man who wouldn’t take her IOU.

Jack had stepped in, offered to pay. She’d declined, told him she didn’t require assistance. He’d then suggested her could see her home, if she wanted, and one look at his bike had her accepting that proposal. 

Six months later they spend all their spare time together. 

They are an odd pair, from the outside. He’s relaxed, scholarly, funny, sweet. She’s skittish, shrewd, sarcastic, restless. He loves school and thinking about the future. She’s brilliant, but not studious, and can’t plan past the next hour. He’s respectful, she’s defiant. He laughs easily, and she doesn't, but when she does… oh when she does it is _earned_. He’s from a large, loving family who he speaks of often, but doesn’t even know if she _has_ relations other than a cousin she mentions with a kind smile. He is an open book. She’s never even told him her surname.

But they share a wicked sense of humour, care about the same causes, are both explorers at heart. 

They see each other.

His mates think her wild, but she’s not. What she really is is unconstrained, and the distinction may be lost on his friends but to Jack it is everything. 

She is everything. 

He thinks he might love her but he’s both too juvenile and too precocious to commit to the term. He doesn’t even know if he’s her only… friend. But he would gladly be her boyfriend, her proper boyfriend, if she’d let him.

Not that they’re always proper. He doesn’t lose his virginity to her, but he comes awfully close. 

He is just working up the nerve to ask her to make it official when she tells him she is going away. She is only 16 but there are many more years of sadness in her eyes as she says it. 

“Where?”

“Europe,” she tells him, but doesn’t elaborate. 

He feels like he’s been sucker punched by an entire continent. 

“Maybe I’ll see you there,” he manages through the hurt. “I’ve been thinking of enlisting.”

They meet one more time after that, and he gives her a gift. Something he’s been holding onto for a while. 

“I can’t take this,” she tells him, knowing its value instinctively. 

“You must,” he replies. “How else will you get away with it?”

“With what?”

“Everything.”

She laughs, truly laughs, and then she cries and he holds her and kisses her goodbye.

The poets make this part seem much more noble.

“Will you… do you think you’ll write? I’d like it very much if you did.” It is murmured into her hair, but she doesn’t answer. He knows she doesn’t make promises she can’t keep, but in this case...

“Just one then,” he negotiates. “When you arrive. So I know you’re safe and alright.”

“Jack… I’m not.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that so he just holds her tighter, and eventually she leaves.

His handlebars always feel empty after that. 

The world has changed, though, and he feels duty bound to change with it.

He enlists, asking his parents to please pass along word if he receives any letters from Europe.

He doesn’t. 

\---------------------

The years pass, eventful and mundane, and he never hears from her. Assumes he never will. So when the lavatory door opens and he next lays eyes on her, two decades later and at a crime scene no less, it is a shock to all his senses. 

He is trying to keep up as she spins her theories like spiderwebs around the room, but in the end he is just caught in them himself. 

She plays the whole thing so coy he’s not even sure she knows who he is. 

The idea hurts more than he thought it would. 

Still, it would be understandable; Jack feels like several lifetimes have passed in the intervening years. 

He eventually finds his footing though, manages to evict her from the room and avoid her as much as possible after that. Calls her Miss Fisher to maintain distance and propriety despite the fact that he once had his hand clumsily up her skirt in the middle of the Fitzroy Gardens. 

And then the case is over and good thing too because he’s not sure his nerves can handle much more of this. 

When she announces her new occupation he actually spits out his champagne. 

He goes to see her in her hotel room that evening, not even caring if she remembers him or not. 

She answers the door with a smile and welcomes him inside. As he’s removing his hat, she leans back against the door and crosses her arms. 

“You know you used to throw pebbles against my window. I don’t know what to do with this knocking on the door nonsense.”

Oh. So she does remember. 

He shrugs without turning to face her. “You’re staying on the top floor,” he reminds her. “And my arm is 20 years older.”

She laughs, easily he realizes with a twinge of something he can’t quite name, and asks him to remove his coat and have a seat. 

He does, but keeps his coat on; some situations require armor. 

She sits across from him and he gives her a nervous smile. “So…” he begins, uncertain how to _actually_ begin.

“It’s been a while,” she says, saving him a little, and he barks out a laugh. 

“Yes,” he agrees.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, and he can see she means it. 

“It is. I’ve often… I wondered how you were. I’m glad you’re…” He huffs out a sigh, annoyed at his own tied tongue. He feels 17 again and not in a good way. “You seem well,” he finally settles on.

“I am. As do you. A Senior Detective Inspector. Impressive.”

“Uh, yes. Yes. Thank you.”

“And useful.” She gives him a gleeful grin, and _that_ look hasn’t changed since they were teenagers. “Looks like we’ll be working together.”

“Yes, about that.” Beguiling smile or not, this is his opening and he has something to say. “Have you thought this through, Phryne?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you don’t have the best track recording for sticking with things.”

“Excuse me?” She seems piqued and he rushes to continue.

“You’re… don’t get me wrong, I know it seems fun. And you always did like a lark. But crime — _victims_ of crimes — they’re not just a distraction.”

She fixes him with a serious look. “And I would never treat them as such.”

“Oh come off it. You’re flighty. Which is fine. Charming even. But this line of work… this isn’t another book you’ll never finish or scarf you’ll never complete. I know you and — ”

“You do not.”

Now it is his turn to be affronted. “Excuse me?”

“You barely knew me at sixteen. You do not know me now. And I’ve _really_ outgrown lectures from men on who I am and who I am not.” 

She stands up and walks over to the door, opening it and making it clear he is no longer welcome in her residence. He nods and puts his hat back on. As he passes her he gives her one more long look and that’s when he really sees it. The change in her. The skittishness is gone, replaced with pure resolve. 

He leaves, assuming, once more, he’s unlikely to see her again.

And then he gets a call from an irate local sergeant.

He tells himself her involvement is not the reason for his, and for a while he even believes it. He certainly has no plans to use her, except this kid is being so recalcitrant and has obviously been through the ringer and he remembers this one time back in Collingwood, when they came across a lost little boy and Phryne had been so gentle with him. She’d known exactly what to say to calm him and he figures what the hell, maybe she’s still got the magic touch. 

What she actually has is a car she uses to kidnap the victim's daughter and one of his suspects.

But when he goes to welfare, and speaks on her behalf, it is with the memories of both that lost little boy and Jane’s smiling face in Phryne’s kitchen.

He gives up on avoiding her. It isn’t worth the effort or bromo-seltzer.

Her intervening years are revealed to him in bits and pieces, and he responds in kind. An ambulance driver and a digger. A pilot and a picketer. Still single and still a marriage.

When he sees her portrait, the first thing he comments on is her hair.

“You still had it long then.” He’d always liked it long.

“Mmmm. Sometimes I miss it.”

He looks up at her and offers a small smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think this suits you now.”

When he finds out about her sister, he’s devastated. So many puzzle pieces fall into place, so many odd moments from their time together then that make sense now. 

He wishes she’d told him, of course, but he understands why she didn’t. All he can do is be here for her now. 

And when she reaches for his hand at the grave, he is. 

All in all, he is genuinely enjoying their time together. Thinks she is too. It gets a little more complicated after his divorce, but it’s mostly just innocent flirting. He remembers that from the early days of their first acquaintance and relishs it just as much this time around.

Until she goes too far. Withholds evidence, shields a murderer, lies to him. He’s had it and he tells her as much. 

He semi-apologizes, admits he’s giving her up. Hopes she doesn’t cry.

She doesn’t.

“You’re not sorry, you’re a coward,” she accuses.

The words sting and he lashes out in kind. “Why, because I don’t let you get away with everything anymore?”

She glares at him. “I don’t need your protection, Jack. I’m not a child!”

“Well you could have fooled me. This is suddenly feeling very familiar.”

“Stop it. This isn’t the same at all.”

“Of course not; this time I’m the one leaving.”

“And ask yourself just why that is. This isn’t about a stocking or a car crash. You look at me and you see all the possibilities of your youth and you’re angry because you just had to confront losing them for a second time.”

It’s an astute observation, but not quite accurate. Doesn’t account for what he actually cares about losing. Doesn’t account for her. 

“And what do you see, Miss Fisher? A safety net? Something to be taken for granted, a distraction until the next adventure without even a letter to let me know you’re alive.”

“Fuck off,” she spits out.

“Gladly.” He turns to leave, and she shouts at his still turned back. 

“I never promised I’d write.” He pauses in the parlour doorway, but doesn’t turn around.

“You never promised anything, Phryne. That would have been too much like something real.”

He leaves, for the first time hoping he won’t see her again.

The case at the college is excruciating. They get through it, but it's a close thing, and the irony of it ending with them both on a bike is not lost on him. 

But he finds he does not wish to never see her again after all. 

They share an alcohol-fueled accord after it is over, negotiate the new terms of their fractured partnership.

She makes the suggestion after the third glass.

He agrees after the fourth.

He meets her on the airfield the next morning, and is ungenerously pleased to see she is just as hungover as him. They share some of Mr. Butler’s tonic in companionable silence and wait until they are both fighting fit. 

And then they fly.

It is an experience unlike any Jack has had before. He finds he rather agrees with Mr. Hugo as they dip and swoop in the air; he feels the thread of the infinite and he loves it.

Eventually they land and Phryne grins. “So how did you like my handlebars, Jack?”

“I liked them very much, Miss Fisher. Very much indeed.”

He walks her back to her car, and she turns to face him. Takes a deep breath. “I did write,” she confesses and he is literally stunned silent at the revelation. “Heaps of letters. I just couldn’t bear to send them. You said you were enlisting and… I was afraid they’d be returned. And I found the thought unbearable. I decided it was better to live in hope this time.” She reaches into her pocket and hands him a small wrapped item.

A beaten up sheriff's badge.

He never thought he’d see that again either.

“It _was_ real, Jack. It was. But so is this. It’s different and it’s new but it’s real. And we’re missing it.”

He looks at her. Really looks at her. Not the distant, foggy memory of his first maybe love, but the living, breathing, remarkable woman in front of him.

What memory could compare to that? 

He returns the badge to its rightful owner and asks her a question.

“Miss Fisher… may I buy you an ice cream at the foreshore?”

“No,” she tells him for the second time in their acquaintance. He nods. Accepts her answer this time as he had the first. “But I’ll buy you one.”

He smiles and it feels lovely and odd in the sun. “It’s a date.”

It is. 

The first of many.

So much has changed in 20 years. _They_ have changed. But they get to know each other again, anew, and find that much has not.

They still share a wicked sense of humour and care deeply about justice. 

They still see each other.

Jack’s virginity hasn’t been an issue in a long, long time, but eventually what he does give her is his heart, and when he does he knows she will protect it. (She still has the badge after all.)

And now he knows he loves her.

There is a space, on the corner of Jack’s desk, that is just wide enough, and just low enough, to seat a person while he is working. 

That is her spot.

It always has been.


	2. Pinches and Pints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW: War trauma and suicidal thoughts.** There’s nothing graphic, it’s really just implied, but please know it’s there if it’s something that might trouble you. 
> 
> This is the only chapter this warning applies to.
> 
> __  
> **Second prompt: Bert finally accepts Jack.**  
> 

Jack cleared his kitchen table, putting away the small remains of his dinner and tidying the countertops. This was his fourth dinner at home this week, his kitchen seeing more use in the three week since Miss Fisher has flown away than in as many months before, a combination of less suppers at her house and more time to catch up on his paperwork; it was amazing what a lack of nightcaps could do for your daily productivity.

He had just poured himself a whisky, a book already selected and waiting in his study, when there was a knock on his front door. He frowned, puzzled as to who it might be at this hour. The first knock was quickly followed by a louder, more insistent second and he stopped wondering — whoever it was was not here socially.

He walked briskly to the door, opening it without even looking through the window. 

Whoever it was he thought it might be, it wasn’t.

“Albert?” It was half question, half greeting. Bert barely acknowledged it.

“I’m... Look, I know it’s late, but I need... I need help.”

Jack took in the man before him, disheveled and out of breath like he’d just run a race, and considered for a moment the level of seriousness necessary to bring him to a copper’s door so late at night. The combination filled him with dread and he nodded his agreement without a single follow up question. Jack grabbed his coat and hat from their hooks by the door.

“Your car or mine?” he asked, already out the door.

“Don’t have the cab,” Bert told him, confirming he had arrived on foot. “Gotta be yours.”

Jack nodded again and led them to his vehicle.

Their conversation in the car was limited to Bert giving Jack directions, and very soon they arrived at their destination, a bridge crossing a particularly wide section of the Yarra a mile or so from Jack’s house.

They got out of the car and Jack watched as Bert scanned the landscape, letting out a deep sigh of relief when he spotted a great hulking giant of a man a short distance away. “Thank Christ,” he muttered.

Jack coughed and raised an eyebrow in question; there was only so far he was willing to go without any information and they had just reached that particular distance.

Bert nodded and took off his hat, nervously fiddling with the brim, but didn’t take his eyes off the man. “My mate, Eddie. We served together for a long time before… before we didn’t. He came back before me, pretty banged up. I’ve tried to keep tabs on ‘im since, but he’s had it rough. Leg never did heal right and he… sometimes he’s still there, ya know?”

Jack did. “And tonight?” he asked. 

“Rung me out of the blue, asked me to meet him here, but it was only to gimme this.” He showed Jack a small silver medal which Jack immediately recognized as a Distinguished Conduct Medal.

“What’s he doing now?” Jack asked quietly, a cold knot of fearful comprehension forming in his gut.

“Sittin. I sat with him for a while, but he didn’t… didn’t seem to do any good. Even tried to pull him off, but it was like tryin’ to move a bloody boulder.” He twisted his cap in his hand. “I was hopin’ maybe another…”

“Yeah. Yes. I understand.”

Jack was a policeman and a veteran: he really did. 

He had done this before, in fact, as both. But he never felt prepared. Never felt adequate. _Wasn’t_ always adequate. But he was there. He was there and he’d joined the police force to save lives and right now, maybe, he could.

Jack shut out everything else as he approached the other man slowly, announcing himself as a mate of Bert’s. Eddie didn’t acknowledge him, but neither did he seem more agitated so Jack continued. He took a seat on the edge of the bridge next to Eddie and looked down to the water below. He was aware, out of the corner of his eye, of Bert taking a seat on the other side of his friend.

The flanking formation reminded him of the war, as so many things did, and he said so.

Eddie had nodded. It was a start.

Later, Jack couldn’t really remember what else he’d talked about. He’d offered some stories about his time in France, he knew that much, and laughed at some of Bert’s more outrageous ones. He’d talked about how he hated thunderstorms now. He’d talked about Rosie. But once they managed to engage Eddie, he mostly just listened. 

Which was why he heard the pride in the other man’s voice when talking about a nephew’s footy game. Bert heard it too and together they gently steered the other man towards future games, future possibilities. 

A few hours after Jack and Bert had arrived they left, a wrung out and exhausted Eddie asleep in the backseat. 

Jack took them both back to Eddie’s boarding house; Bert was planning to stay the night. 

Jack drove himself home after, proud the shaking in his hands held off until he was parked in front of his house. 

He finished the whisky he’d abandoned earlier and took himself to bed. 

He knew he would have nightmares tonight, but equally he knew they’d be worth it. 

\--------------------

Jack signed the last report on his desk and glanced at the clock: ten minutes left in his shift and he was actually done. He chuckled to himself; Miss Fisher had better not stay away too much longer or he’d efficacy himself out of a job. 

A rapping on his office door pulled him out of his musings. “Come in,” he called, stacking the papers. 

He was surprised for the second time in two days to find it was Bert. 

“G’day Inspector,” he greeted, mumbling a little but meeting Jack’s eye without hesitation.

Jack nodded a hello. “And to you, Albert. What brings you by today?” A sudden panicky thought formed in his mind and he sat up straighter. “Did something happen to — ”

“No,” Bert rushed to assure him. “No.” He coughed. “I was just on my way to the pub. Thought you might fancy a pint.”

Jack’s eyebrows raised in surprise, the only outward evidence of his utter shock.

“Uh…”

“If you want. Don’t change my plans either way. I never had a problem drinkin’ alone.”

“No, I…” Jack looked at the clock. Seven minutes left in his shift.

What the hell.

“Why not?” he agreed, standing and grabbing his coat and hat.

The two men walked out of the station and made their way to the closest pub that wasn’t frequented by coppers — Jack didn’t think Bert was ready for such a giant leap.

They ordered two pints and took a table near the back, one of the only ones available given how close to six o’clock it was getting.

They drank in silence for a minute, before Bert finally spoke. “Talked to Eddie’s sister in Ballarat this morning. She’s gonna take him in for a bit. Said he might even be able to help with the kiddies.”

“That’s good,” Jack said. “That’s good to hear.”

“It is. Doesn’t mean he won’t…”

“No. But it helps.”

“Yeah.”

Jack took a long pull of his beer, then fixed Bert with a questioning look.

“Why me?”

Bert shrugged. “You were near enough to run it,” he offered noncommittally. 

“So it was just proximity?” Jack asked with no small amount of incredulity.

Bert shrugged again, his free hand picking at his beer coaster as he did. “Not everyone understands blokes like Eddie. Most think he’s broken or something. But you were always good with Arthur before… figured maybe you’d know what to do.”

“Only vaguely,” Jack admitted. “I mostly made it up as I went along.”

“Isn’t that what we’re all doin’?” Bert asked and Jack toasted the astuteness of his observation.

“You know who _would_ have known what to do?” Jack asked with a wry smile.

“Miss Fisher,” Bert agreed. “Yeah, won’t deny I missed her special brand of persuasion last night.” He offered his own small smile. “But as it turns out, your house is closer than England.”

Jack snorted and took another sip of his beer. 

Bert kept his eyes on the coaster. “So I reckon you’ll do in a pinch.”

Jack nodded and hid a smile behind his glass.

There are pints you share with colleagues and there are pints you share with comrades and there are pints you share with friends.

This wasn’t quite any of those, but it was a little bit of each. 

Giant leaps indeed.


	3. Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second prompt: Rosie gets remarried and invites Jack to the wedding.**

Jack took another sip of his tea, relishing the quiet as he read the paper. It was rare to have a morning to himself at Wardlow, but Mr Butler was at the shops and Jane had spent the night at Ruth’s and Phryne was still asleep, so he had decided to indulge in a leisurely cuppa while he had the chance. He was down to the dregs of the mug, and contemplating another cup, when he heard a knock on the front door and frowned. Despite the fact that this was for all intents and purposes his second home, he wasn’t in the habit of answering the door. Still, he wasn’t sure he should ignore it either; Jane had developed a new habit of forgetting her key, almost certainly owing to her ambitious course-load, and it would be just like her to come back early from Ruth’s to study on a Saturday.

With a sigh and a longing glance at his paper, he walked to the front door and opened it.

It was not Jane.

“Rosie,” he greeted in surprise. Pleased surprise, but surprise all the same. “What…”

“Good morning, Jack.” She smiled charitably at his shock for a long moment, then looked over his shoulder. “May I come in?”

“Oh, yes.” He shook his head at his reaction and offered her a little smile in return. “Of course.”

He opened the door wider and gestured for her to enter. She walked in and handed him her hat and coat to hang up. 

“Would you like some tea?” he asked.

“That would be lovely,” she accepted. “Parlour?”

“Kitchen,” he corrected. “If you don’t mind. I have some made already.”

She nodded and walked towards it without hesitation, a reminder, as though he needed one, that she had spent a not insignificant amount of time here over the last year. Though she now split her time between Melbourne and Sydney for her work, when she was in town, she often spent time with Phryne and Jack socially.

She’d never shown up so early and unannounced before though.

She took a seat at the wooden table and waited for Jack to pour them each a cup. He added milk to both, and some sugar to his, then joined her.

She accepted it gratefully, inhaling the fragrant steam before taking a sip.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked when she had put the cup back down. “I didn’t even know you were in town. Oh, are you here to see Phryne? Because I’m afraid she’s still asleep.”

She shook her head. “You, actually. I rather expected Phryne might not be awake and I was hoping for a moment alone.”

“Oh.” He blinked in surprise. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes,” she assured him quickly. “Yes. Fine. Wonderful, actually, I just… well, I wanted…” She scrunched her nose and huffed out a sigh of frustration that she couldn’t find the exact right words, a habit he remembered well — he’d found it endearing when they were courting and frustrating when they were fighting and now it was just one more thing that made her _her_.

He took a sip of his tea and waited for her to land on what she wanted to say.

She settled on the simple facts.

“I’m getting remarried,” she told him, her expression a mix of happiness and nerves.

His returning smile was just delighted. 

“That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Really. I am so happy for you. And Hank, of course, though obviously he’s getting the better end of the stick.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Ignoring for a moment that you just compared either me or marriage in general to a stick, thank you.”

“Do you have a date yet?” he asked.

“No, but we’re not going to make a lot of fuss either. Just a small ceremony with close friends and family. Frankly, I’d be just as happy to do it at the courthouse, but Hank is an only child and his mother has always wanted… you understand.”

Jack nodded and rose in his chair. “I’ll go wake Phryne. She’ll want to celebrate with us.” Jack turned to do just that, but Rosie placed a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Wait,” she said, and he noticed with surprise that the nerves were still there. “Wait. I wanted… I wanted to ask you something. Alone.”

Jack nodded again and sat back down, though he was now completely confused. Rosie worried at her bottom lip for a moment, then rolled her eyes — this time at herself — before coming out with it.

“I’d like you to walk me down the aisle,” she told him, the words tumbling out in a bit of a rush. 

Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? You… you want me to give you away?”

She huffed again and this time she wasn’t frustrated at herself. “No, Jack, I don’t want you to _give me away_. No one owns me. I am not property or a promotional opportunity at The Strand Arcade.”

Jack smiled fondly into his teacup at her very specific arguments. “You’ve been attending more of those Adventuresses Club meetings, haven’t you?”

She lifted her chin a fraction in defiance and defense. “And what if I have? They’re a good group, Jack, and I absolutely run that billiards table, thank you very much.”

Jack remembered well teaching her to play and then losing nearly every subsequent game to her; he held his teacup aloft in silent toast.

She acknowledged his praise with a silent tilt of her head, then took a steadying sip of her tea and a deep breath for good measure. “I don’t need anyone to give me away, Jack. I think maybe I’ve given rather too much of myself away over the years as it is.” She glanced down at her cup before continuing. 

“But I’ve worked very hard to put myself back together and when Hank and I get married, I would like you…” She stopped again and laughed, not humourless, but not exactly amused either. “I don’t know why this is so hard to explain, it makes perfect sense in my head.”

“Well,” Jack confessed, “I’ll admit it doesn’t make perfect sense to me. Personally, I can’t imagine why you’d want me up there the second time when I mucked it up so badly the first.” 

Jack gave her a little self-deprecating smile at the joke that wasn’t really a joke, but she didn’t smile back. She just looked sad for a moment — either for him or because of him, he didn’t know which — but then that passed and her face became utterly sincere and utterly serious all at once.

“Jack… do you remember our vows?” she asked.

Jack sucked in a deep breath at her question; he did, of course, but he couldn’t imagine what they had to do with this. He nodded, though, and she continued.

“We made a lot of promises that day, and I know we didn’t keep all of them.” Jack flinched and she looked at him pointedly. “ _Either_ of us. But the for better for worse part, the part where you promised to always be there for me, even when everything went to hell… Jack, you _have_. You have. When my life fell apart, and then after I rebuilt it… I didn’t do that alone. I had help. I had _you_. You’ve always been there for me. Definitely through the worst moments and now… now I want you to stand up with me for one of the best.”

Jack stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. 

The nervous look was back on her face, but she didn’t look away this time; she always had been brave.

“Please,” she added, quiet but sure. “You’re… you’re my oldest friend, Jack, and it would mean so much to me if you were by my side when I take this next step.”

Jack tried to smile reassuringly despite the sudden lump in his throat. “Well I... frankly I don’t think I’m deserving of the honour — ” Rosie opened her mouth to correct him, but he held up his hand to stop her interruption. “But I’ve long since learned that it’s not my place to decide things for you. So if you want me to walk you down the aisle, it would be my great pleasure and privilege to do so.”

Rosie took a deep breath and beamed at him, no more nerves, just enormously pleased. “Thank you,” she told him. “Oh and of course Phryne must come as well.”

Jack gave her a wry smile. “You’re not going to ask her to be your maid of honour, are you?”

Rosie shot him a very deliberate look. “Jack, neither Phryne nor I have been a maid in quite some time.” He chuckled and she took another sip of tea. “But maybe she could help plan the reception?”

“Only if you and Hank want to start the “in sickness” part early,” he teased. “You know you’ll be absolutely swimming in champagne if she has anything to say about it.”

“Oh I’m absolutely counting on it,” she retorted and Jack barked out a laugh. Now that the big question was out of the way, she was relaxed and much more herself. She took another sip of tea. “Speaking of… do you think the two of you will ever….”

“No,” he told her, certainly but not unhappily. “No. But this is my for better too. I promise.”

“I know, Jack. I know.” She reached across the kitchen table to take his hand in her own and smiled at him over her teacup. “I’m happy for us both.”

Jack squeezed her hand and took another sip of his tea, relishing this quiet, small, important moment with his friend.

It was one of their better ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, if you squint this is a follow-up to [_An Instrument of Grace_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22631254/chapters/54086341), but obviously you don't need to know that story for this one. I just really like it. ;-)


	4. Courage to Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second prompt… is in the end notes.**
> 
> This is a hurt/comfort chapter, just FYI.

She is hosting a party, of course, when it happens. 

She is always hosting a party.

The party is in full swing, and there is a knock at the door and she answers it, a champagne coupe in her hand, a sway in her step, as she tells Mr Butler to refill the drinks, she can handle the guests.

She flings the door wide, ready to welcome her guest with open arms.

She drops the glass instead.

There, standing on her front porch is a woman, blonde, slim, a few years her junior with the most familiar blue eyes.

Janey.

Phryne staggers back for a moment, grabs the door frame for support.

“Hello, Phryne,” the woman says, smiling nervously.

Phryne cannot think how to respond, so she just parrots back, “Hello.”

“Is this… a bad time?” the woman asks and Phryne chokes out an incredulous laugh at the notion.

“A bad…” And the idea that there would ever be a time where anything was more important than this shocks Phryne out of her stupor. “Janey??” she asks, seeking confirmation of what she already knows to be true.

The woman nods. “Yes. It’s me.” Tears pool in her eyes and she tugs at the hem of her blouse anxiously. “Phryne, I’m so sorry, I — ”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish before Phryne has enveloped her in a hug so tight it knocks the wind out of both of them.

Phryne isn’t crying — she feels like she should be but she’s not — but Janey is. Hot tears flow down her cheeks as she hugs her older sister fiercely, making up for one of a million hugs they have missed out on over the years. 

Eventually the younger woman’s tears subside and she calms enough to let go. Phryne dries her sister’s cheeks with her palm — something she’d done when they were children and the act forms a new knot in her chest — and pulls her inside the house. The noises from the parlour remind her of the party and she looks at Janey questioningly.

“I can send everyone home,” she offers. “If you want some quiet.”

“I’ve had enough quiet,” Janey tells her. “I think I’d like to join the party.”

Phryne nods, takes her by the hand, and brings her to the parlour doors but stops short of turning the handle. 

“Phryne?” Janey questions, and Phryne gives her a tight smile in response. She is eager, of course, to introduce her first family to the one she has made, but she can’t ignore the nerves that have suddenly overtaken her, the feeling that somehow this isn’t right.

Janey’s returning smile isn’t tight at all though and so Phryne shakes the feeling, takes her sister’s hand, and flings the doors wide open. 

The party is still in full swing, though a few faces turn to welcome Phryne back. Mac, who is speaking to Mr Butler, turns pale at the sight. Phryne pulls Janey towards them.

“Janey?” Mac chokes out.

“Hi Lizzie,” Janey greets softly and Mac touches the other woman’s arm gently to prove to herself she’s neither an apparition nor hallucination. 

“It’s really her,” Phryne confirms softly, then adds cheerfully to the man by her side, “Mr Butler, one more for dinner.”

“Very good, miss.” He moves away to amend the seating situation, handing Janey a drink he has seemingly materialized from thin air as he does. “So pleased you can finally join us, miss.”

The most unflappable man in Australia.

She introduces Janey to Bert and Cec, who smack each other with their caps in excitement, and Hugh and Dot, who crosses herself three times in amazement.

Young Jane — a happy coincidence, Phryne assures her little sister — bursts into tears and Phryne is overwhelmed to see the older Jane comfort the younger one so naturally.

Aunt Prudence just offers a stern “where the devil have you been, girl?,” but her eyes are damp as she says it.

Jane laughs at their aunt's consistency and Phryne laughs with her and everything is perfect, perfect, very nearly perfect.

But something nags at Phryne.

The party is in full swing, but someone is missing.

A feeling of overwhelming cold envelopes her and Phryne looks around with an abrupt burst of dread, as though Janey being here means Jack must be gone, as though she can’t possibly have both. And suddenly she knows, she _knows_ , he is gone.

But no, he is right where she’d left him, sitting on the window seat, whisky glass in hand.

The cold dissipates.

“And this,” she tells Janey as she leads her to the window, “is Jack.”

Jack smiles, not his lopsided half smile or secret downturned smirk, but a great true grin and Phryne’s heart feels near to bursting. “Janey,” he says, with a catch of enormous emotion in his throat. “It is so good to meet you.”

“You as well,” Janey says, then pulls him in for a hug. “I’ve waited a long time to meet the man who stole my sister’s heart.”

Jack straightens up and shakes his head. “I didn’t steal anything,” he assures her. “Man of the law and all that. I think you’ll find your sister is the only thief here.” He winks at Janey and Janey laughs.

“Oh, Phryne,” she says. “I like him.”

“Me too,” confesses Phryne.

“Is he keeping you out of trouble?” Janey asks. She turns back to Jack. “That was always my job, you know.”

“I don’t think either of us was very good at it,” Jack replies and Janey laughs again.

“No,” Janey agrees. “But she’s worth the effort.”

Phryne watches the two tease her in tandem and the tears that did not fall earlier suddenly do, her face wet before she even knows why. She pulls her sister in close again for another hug. “I have missed you so much, Janey.”

The party is in full swing, and then suddenly it isn’t.

She is confused, at first. The room is suddenly dark and quiet and she is dressed wrong. It is all wrong, in fact, all of it, and for a moment she is lost with only that thought for a guide. But then she recognizes her sheets, and her pillow, and the scent of the man lying next to her. She realizes where she is haltingly and then all at once, like a diver trying to reach the ocean surface before they run out of air. She feels as breathless as one too. She rolls over, a feeble attempt not to wake him, but he is too attuned to her by now.

“Phryne?” Jack’s voice is soft and sleepy. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, Jack,” she replies, her cheeks wet and her heart racing. “I’m fine.”

It rings false to both their ears.

He turns over and strokes her arm, the only tell that he knows she is lying. He will let it go, if she wants, he always does.

She finds she doesn't want to tonight.

“Can’t sleep,” she admits quietly. “I… woke up.”

“Did you have the dream again?” he asks, more alert now, but no less soft.

“Yes.”

The stroking continues, long, steady motions that calm her galloping heart.

“Can I do anything?” he asks after a time.

“No, I’m… I’m alright. Really.”

He is quiet, but she can feel his doubt radiating through the pads of his fingers on her skin.

“Really,” she adds. “I actually don’t feel quite so sad as I usually do. The dream... it ended differently this time.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was finally able to introduce her to you.”

“Oh,” he repeats, and the strokes falter at that, just for a moment, before they continue.

“It’s silly,” Phryne tells him. “I know it’s silly, but…”

“Phryne, it’s not.”

“I just think she would have liked you,” Phryne whispers. The strokes stop, replaced by his arms holding her tight.

“A copper?” he teases, trying to make her smile. It almost works.

“She wasn’t like my father, Jack. She tried to keep me out of trouble.”

“A noble effort,” he praises. “If ultimately futile.” 

Phryne laughs, small but real. 

“What was her best achievement?” he asks. “Her most successful attempt at keeping young Phryne Fisher out of trouble?”

Phryne thinks for a moment, the memory slowly replacing the dream in the forefront of her mind.

“Well…” Phryne concedes slowly. “She did thwart the great soda shoppe robbery of 1910. Nary a single sweet was snatched that day, despite meticulous planning.”

“Good for her,” Jack says with no small amount of admiration. He is quiet for a moment, before continuing. “Tell me more?”

Phryne takes a deep breath and turns over. “What do you want to know?” she asks.

“Everything,” he admits. 

She nods and tries to remember a favorite story. It leads to another and then another until finally she is too exhausted to continue.

“You can tell me more tomorrow,” he promises, his hand on her arm moving again in long even strokes.

Her last thought, before falling asleep in his arms, is that Janey really would have liked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second prompt: One character has nightmares and another comforts them.**
> 
> Title comes from the Erma Bombeck quote, “It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else.”
> 
> Re: the chapter itself... yes, I know, I’m sorry. 😁 I didn’t want to leave it there either, though, so the next chapter is already up!


	5. Occupied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second prompt: meeting at a party whilst drunk AU.**

Jack knocked on the door, his head pounding in rhythm with his fist. He winced, then quickly schooled his features; whatever was waiting for him behind that door, he needed to be in control when he met it.

“This lavatory's fully occupied!”

Jack cleared his throat and called out loudly in response, ignoring the way his throbbing skull protested the maneuver. “Police! Open up.” He knocked again and this time his head basically just knocked back.

_Control, Robinson_ , he reminded himself firmly, _you’re in control._

The door opened to reveal the last person in the world he was expecting.

Her. 

Oh. Oh fuck.

The barest hint of recognition graced her lips as she greeted him with a smile and, thankfully, as a stranger.

Though, of course, she’s wasn’t.

***

_The party is loud and hot and not at all Jack’s scene except his wife has just told him she is officially setting their divorce in motion so why the hell not come out tonight and get blotto on someone else’s dime._

_That the someone else is an old friend from the army who can now afford it helps to ease Jack’s guilt a bit about the last part._

_Still… the party is a lot. And Jack has had a lot. A lot. He needs some fresh air, or at least some quiet. He stumbles a bit at the top of the stairs and decides he’s not ready to brave them just yet. Luckily there is an empty room at the end of the hall, cool and quiet, and Jack makes it his sanctuary from the sanatorium._

_He is swaying pleasantly on the edge of the tub, drunk but not sick, when there is a knock at the door._

_“Occupied!” he yells, louder than he means._

_The door opens anyway._

_He blinks and stares at one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen in his life._

_“Occupied,” he repeats dumbly._

_“Oh! Sorry! I thought you said ‘come in’,” she grins at him, then walks over to the mirror to adjust her makeup._

_“Sorry, how does ‘occupied’ sound anything like ‘come in’? And further… more,” he slurs out the word, but tries to cover it smoothly, “why would you want to come in if someone was here?”_

_“It’s a paaaaaarty,” she reminds him via the mirror. “Anything goes.”_

_“This is exactly why we have a vice squad,” he grumbles and she laughs._

_“Good thing I’m not the police, then.”_

_He doesn’t disagree._

***

“You must be the Inspector,” she said, just the slightest bit of surprise in her tone. Maybe he should have offered his title last night after all. “Apologies for my urgent call of nature.”

“This is the scene of a crime,” Jack reminded her with all the gravitas he could muster while still wondering if this was some kind of dream.

“Well, lucky for you, I'm wearing gloves.” She offered him her hand. “Miss Phryne Fisher.”

Nope, not a dream then; his subconscious wasn’t creative enough to come up with that name.

Jack took a deep breath, but all that did was give him a heady whiff of her perfume and fling his mind right back into the previous evening. _Focus, man, focus! Policework! Detecting! Ask her a question or… something!_

“I assume you weren't close to the deceased.”

Oh fabulous.

She let the non-question question slide and answered him anyway.

“Never had the pleasure, but by all accounts he was charming.”

***

_She’s at the mirror, still fixing her red, red lips, with her back to him. He’s trying to be a gentleman, he really is, but all he can focus on is the long line of her spine, exposed and accentuated by a deep blue dress with a dip in the back so deep he feels like he’s falling._

_That could also be the booze._

_He tries to readjust his line of sight into one he can be proud of, but when he looks up he meets her eye in the mirror and she winks at him and that’s that; his ears are burning and it has nothing to do with the whisky._

***

“Do you think it was poison?”

And of course Hugh was already nodding. “Most likely…”

“We are yet to determine the cause of death,” Jack interrupted. _For god’s sake, Collins_ … 

He looked back at Phryne.

“Miss Fisher, I appreciate your curiosity for crime.”

“Well, every lady needs a hobby.”

“But please…”

And she’s back under his arm and examining the scene and _Jesus Christ_ did this woman own any clothes that covered her back? She was still speaking though, brilliant insights he’d be lucky to get from any of his constables on a good day, so he forced himself to focus.

“...but the fetal position of the victim outline, although not terribly well executed, indicates a degree of pain rather than the flailing limbs one might associate with a struggle. And then of course there's the fact that death occurred after breakfast according to Mrs Andrews which suggests something ingested?”

***

_“Are you drunk?” She’s finishing up her lipstick now, and returning the tube to her purse._

_“I’m not not drunk,” he replies, and it’s the truth. He thinks. Grammar is hard._

_She laughs and turns around to face him. “What’s your name,” she asks, leaning back on the sink, the dress leaning back even further to spotlight her every curve._

_“Jack.” He answers before he means to, but everything is a little slow right now including his natural reticence. Oh well, in for a penny… “What’s yours?”_

_“Jaaaaaaaaack,” she stretches his name out like taffy as her head falls back and she looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t just give my name out to every handsome man I meet,” she tells the roof of the room and Jack realizes she is just as drunk as he is. Well that’s nice anyway. Equality and all that. She rotates her head around, swiveling it towards him conspiratorially as her hair swings a little in her face. “I’ve heard this is a dangerous town,” she whispers, her red lips inches from his own._

_“Have you?” Jack whispers back and she nods. His eyes are on those red lips now, and Jack pulls himself back, physically and metaphorically, before he gives in to the urge to taste them. He is technically still married after all, even if he’s the only one who thinks so. “That’s too bad. Why stay in Melbourne then? Seems like a lot of trouble.”_

_“Oh, Jack… I like a bit of danger. And I bring my own trouble.” She winks again and he rolls his eyes, which makes the room spin, so that was a mistake. “Besides,” she continues, “I just got here.” She grins at him. “You’re my welcome committee!”_

_Jack raises a glass in toast, realizing too late that he doesn’t actually have a glass in his hand anymore. “Well welcome to Melbourne, Miss… Trouble.”_

_“Oh I like that. I might keep that.”_

_“I expect you will.”_

***

“All wild surmise, of course.”

“Of course. Now…”

***

_“Now what, Jack?”_

_“Now… what?”_

_“What happens next?”_

__

__

_“I don’t follow.” Which could still be the booze but he is beginning to think is just her._

_“Well I like you, Jack. And I can tell you like me. So what happens next? Do you want to come dance with me? I promise I won’t step on your toes.” She stretches out an arm in invitation and he grabs her hand out of instinct and impulse and intoxication._

_“Rejoining the crowd isn’t really what I had in mind, Miss T.” He doesn’t mean it the way it comes out, but it comes out like a proposition and he knows it immediately. He is opening his mouth to apologize when she raises an eyebrow and grins at him and he is suddenly speechless._

_“Is that so, Jack?” She glances around the room. “Not my usual style, but when in Rome….”_

_“I…” His mouth is dry and his head is spinning and goddamnit he is still holding her hand! In response to his stammering she merely raises her left leg and places her high heel-clad foot beside him on the tub, the slit of her dress falling downward as she does, exposing her shapely leg up to the thigh. Duty and desire both flair up within him and Jack swallows, hard, realizing that if he doesn’t stop things right fucking now he is going to snog this woman senseless in his mate’s upstairs bathroom._

_Would that really be so terrible?_

_Couldn’t he… just this once..._

_But duty says ‘no’ and desire warns ‘not like this’ because he may be drunk but he is still Jack._

_Regret writ large across his face, he musters every ounce of self-discipline he possesses and slips his fingers under her ankle to move her foot back down to the floor, his hand holding her silk covered leg a full five seconds more than is required._

_Not that she complains._

_She doesn’t say anything, in fact. Just smiles at him, serene and sweet, her eyes full of good humour, compassion and understanding. Understanding for… him. He is frankly startled by how much she seems to understand. Her senses are surely as dulled by the booze as his and yet she is clearly still sharper than most people he knows and Jack suddenly has his second realization in as many minutes: under different circumstances he really would have liked to have known this woman better._

_She doesn’t draw out the moment, though, just releases his hand (why was he still holding it??), smoothes down her dress and heads to the door. She pauses when she reaches it, though, and with her hand still on the handle, turns back to address him one last time._

_“It was very nice meeting you, Jack.”_

_“You too, Miss Trouble. I know it goes against your name and your nature, but try to stay out of it?”_

_“Not a chance,” she assures him with her third drunken wink of the night and he laughs in spite of himself. “Thanks for the welcome, though. And Jack?”_

_“Mmmm?”_

_“Next time you corner me in a lavatory, I expect you to make it count.”_

_And then she is gone, leaving him in quiet, though not in peace._

_He really should have gotten her name._

***

“Do you have a card?” she asked, feigning coquettishness, that same humour from last night still in her eyes if one knew where to look. “In case I need to call the police. Because I'm a woman alone. Newly arrived in a dangerous town.”

He swallowed, and reached for his cards. Time to lay down the law, so to speak. “I plan to make this town less dangerous, Miss Fisher.”

“Good. I do like a man with a plan. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

And then she was gone, leaving him in quiet, though not in peace.

He tapped his remaining cards against his hand absently. Beside him Hugh looked confused.

“Huh,” he noted in his very Hugh way. “Your cards only say J. Robinson, don’t they? I wonder how Miss Fisher knew your full name.” He frowned, giving it real thought and Jack knew he should redirect the lad but his brain was too busy desperately processing the last 90 seconds. 

“Although,” Hugh continued, “I suppose Mrs Andrews might have told her.” He chuckled. “Funny that she asked for your card if she already has your number.”

Jack’s head was suddenly pounding in a way that had nothing to do with his hangover.

Oh she definitely had his number.

Fuuuuuuuuck.


	6. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second prompt: Phryne finds out that Jack's an insomniac.**

It started with a stubbed toe. 

Specifically Phryne’s toe, which was unceremoniously smashed by a young man who showed tremendous promise until he revealed his terrible footwork and inability to hit the mark no matter how much direction she gave him. 

That last part showed very little promise indeed. 

Eventually she called an early end to the night — early by her standards anyway — and drove herself home. 

City South was on the way and as she passed it, she noticed a familiar silhouette in the door frame.

Well… someone was having a late night.

She pulled over the Hispano and called out to him. “Hello Jack!”

He turned in the doorway, clearly surprised to see her there so late, though it passed as quickly as his surprise at anything she did these days.

“Miss Fisher,” he greeted politely.

“Need a ride home?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just arriving, actually.”

Now it was her turn to be surprised. “What kind of shift is that?”

“The kind that gets results,” he told her. “Goodnight, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne shrugged and waved. “Goodnight, Jack.”

And that would have been that. 

Except it happened again.

Several weeks later she was returning home from a little light B&E when she passed City South again and saw his office light on. Intrigued at these result-getting-shifts (and still a little wound from an unexpected encounter with a Rottweiler) she followed an impulse and let herself into the station. His door was open and he was at his desk, reading a case report with a glass of whisky next to him. Definitely not on duty then. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw her, and then rolled when he noticed her telltale beret.

“Miss Fisher,” he acknowledged. “Here to turn yourself in?”

“You’ll never take me alive, copper,” she teased, flouncing into her chair and putting her feet up on the desk. She pointed to the bottle and he rolled his eyes again before pouring her a glass. She took a long sip, then gave him a considering look. “So… why the late night, Jack? Or are you just arriving again?”

He sighed and took a sip of his own. “You caught me. I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d come in and catch up on some paperwork.”

Phryne watched him closely as he spoke, the puzzle pieces fitting into place. “And last time?”

“Same,” he admitted.

“Do you… often have trouble sleeping?”

He sighed again. “I do. Happy now? Another case solved.”

“I only want to help, Jack,” she told him sincerely. “I assume you’ve tried all the usual methods? Counting sheep, lavender by the bed, a hot bath?”

He nodded deliberately. “I have.”

“Hot milk?” she added, though she could see he preferred a harder nightcap.

“I’ve tried that too. Usually paired with some Zane Gray. Sometimes a splash of brandy. It never does any good.” He shrugged. “I usually just have to let it pass. Try to get a kip the next day when I can, drink lots of tea when I can't.”

“Have you tried company?” she asked, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. Phryne laughed. “Not that kind. Just… company. Someone to talk to.”

“Like who?” he asked, subtly reminding her his wife lived elsewhere.

“Like me,” she suggested brightly; the idea had only just come to her but she was warming to it by the second. He scoffed, at the logistics or the impropriety of it she wasn’t sure which, but either way she put her glass and her foot down.

“I mean it, Jack. I’m a bit of a night owl anyway. You should come by the next time you can’t sleep. We can play draughts or cards or something.”

“I thought you found playing cards tiresome?”

“Which makes them perfect for insomnia,” she concluded with a wink and he chuckled despite himself. “Come by.” She pointed at the bottle on his desk. “If nothing else, my whisky is better and my parlour is much cheerier than an almost empty station.”

Jack titled his head in thought. “What if you have other… company?” he asked, politely but pointedly.

“If the company’s not interesting I’ll be glad of the interruption,” she assured him.

“And if it is?”

“Then I definitely won’t be answering the door,” she informed him, tonguing her canine with a grin. 

Jack tried to hide a smile behind his glass but she caught it. 

She’d caught him.

She smiled, finished her whisky, and stood, pleased at this new development in their friendship. “Thanks for the drink, Jack. See you around soon, I hope.”

And that would have been that. 

Except it wasn’t.

Jack didn’t exactly take her up on her offer, not at first. But there were nights he just kind of… stayed. Lingered in her company until very late indeed. She suspected those were the nights he knew he’d be up anyway and decided he preferred to indulge in a few more games, a few more stories, instead of spending those hours sleepless and alone. 

The first time he actually showed up at her door, nearing midnight and without even the pretext of a case… well he wasn’t exactly the _last_ person on earth she’d expected to see, but he was pretty damn close.

“The lights were on,” he explained, a little embarrassed. 

“Of course,” she said, opening up the door to let him in.

He didn’t do it often, maybe once a month, but when he did she was always enormously pleased he trusted her enough to be there.

He came more often after his divorce, less after the Gerty Haynes case.

He was there almost every night after Sanderson’s arrest.

And it was odd, because just when he was there the most, when she should have been growing weary of his evening company, is when she realized how much she didn’t want him to leave.

Well, wasn’t that interesting?

Ill-timed too, because once her father showed up he stopped coming by entirely.

She didn’t dwell on it though, not until she realized that pasta was a cure for insomnia as well.

She tried not to be dismayed at the realization. And she succeeded. Mostly. She found she couldn’t sleep, though.

Wasn’t that interesting?

Still, she had her own strategies and she would get past it. A little wine, a little Verdi.

And that would have been that. 

Except Strano's was closed. 

“Looks like you'll have to make do with me.”

“Looks like we'll have to make do with each other.”

She turned off the Verdi. He poured the wine.

She’d kissed him before their glasses were empty.

“You know,” she murmured suggestively against his jaw. “There is one other cure for insomnia we haven’t tried.”

“Chamomile tea?” he asked as he nibbled the shell of her ear.

“Absolutely,” she sighed. “And I just happen to have some next to my bed.”

He smirked as he kissed his way down her neck. “Do you now?”

“Mmmm. I’ve been keeping it there for ages now, you know” she told him. “For you.” It came out more tenderly than she meant it to, but not more than she felt. 

He pulled back and looked at her, searching her eyes for something, though she didn’t know what. It was obvious when he found it, though, because the smile that broke out on his face as he did was spectacular as a sunrise.

“Then what are we waiting for?” He picked her up, startling a delighted laugh out of her, and carried her upstairs.

Where they proceeded not to sleep at all.

And that, happily, was that.


End file.
